Artemis Fowl: The Luck of the Irish
by arin
Summary: (slash) Set between books 1 and 2, tells the story of Artemis' attempt to adjust to boarding school life while conducting one of his nefarious schemes. Rating is for potential sexual content of future chapters.
1. A genius under duress

Author's Note: The events in this story occur directly after the events in Book #1, and precede anything in "The Arctic Incident." I started this without any clear idea of what the criminal scheme was going to be, just that there was going to be one. Then I went to www.artemisfowl.com and read the prologue. Can you say plot hook? :)

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Artemis Fowl the Second felt naked.

It could partially have been because he /was/ naked, standing in what passed for a shower at Saint Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen and trying to ignore the giggling and splashing of his peers under the jets of lukewarm water by reciting in his head every ingredient in his school-issue bar of soap, what year the ingredient was discovered and by whom. But mostly, it was because the school's student population ranged in age from six to fourteen, and no adults were permitted on campus who were not part of the school's own teaching or administrative staff. Hence, Butler was consigned to a small flat in Wicklow County proper, and at least four minutes away at all times. Almost every boarding school student feels a sense of loss when first leaving their family environment, but Butler was far more than a family member. It was as unacceptable to Artemis to be without him as it would be for another student to attend school without his right leg. It certainly made the boundless, youthful energy of his fellow students feel that much more inappropriate. 

Palm Kernel Oil. Babylonian culture had references to it's use in cleansing rituals dating as far back as 2800 B.C. Check. Mutton tallow. Traditionally added to soap materials by Caesar Augustus during his reign of the Roman Empire. Check. 

A rather obnoxious second-former named Covey Hanlon cupped his hands to gather water and then splashed Artemis' left side. "Hey, Fowl!" he whined. Artemis' gaze shifted to take the boy in. About a year younger, of Irish descent. All hair seemed to look darker when it was wet, but Artemis gauged that Covey's would likely be somewhere between light brown and dirty blonde when it was dried. Prepubescent, of course, but attractive in his own way, at least physically. Personality-wise, he was rapidly earning the reputation of a class clown, which Artemis found distasteful. 

"Yes?" Artemis replied. 

"I said, 'You goin' to the rock or not'?" Covey repeated, annoyance in his voice. 

Artemis placed the soap bar back onto the small dish in front of his shower head, and headed for the exit. "I have other plans this evening, Covey," he declared.

Covey bounded after him, looping one arm over his shoulder and tackling him into the wall with complete disregard for the fact that they were both still nude. While a small part of Artemis did find the contact exciting, the vast majority of him was struck by the crassness of it all. Completely uncivilized. It was the curse of a truly gifted minor, to be surrounded by 'peers' who seemed little more than animals. 

"What plans?" Covey insisted, breaking contact and keeping pace towards the boys' dormitory. "Curfew's at eleven o'clock, y'know." Another boy handed each of them a towel, which they used to dry off as they spoke. To Artemis, this was a methodical, deliberate act, with five strokes from the towel to each area of his body in a counterclockwise circle to achieve maximum dryness. Conversely, Covey seemed to give no thought whatsoever to how he dried off, overscrubbing some areas while completely ignoring others. Again, totally uncivilized.

Artemis sighed. "I have an engagement in the school library that couldn't possibly be of any interest to you. It involves very careful and deliberate action to ensure a specific, preferably lucrative outcome."

Covey seemed to think that over for a moment. "You're right," he finally admitted. "Sounds boring as hell."

Artemis shrugged. "Actually, I find immersing myself in Leonaro da Vinci's works rather enjoyable," he started to share. If it seems odd that Artemis would give any kind of opening to this young lad, it should be mentioned at this point that Covey was his roommate, which required that at least some small semblance of pleasantry remain between them. Besides, as the old adage goes, _Any__ port in a storm._

Not to say that Covey had any intention of letting him finish. "School stuff?" he complained. 

"Actually, extracurricular," Artemis assured him. "I believe I can get a bunch of people to believe that da Vinci's l…"

"Okay, that does it," Covey insisted, grabbing Artemis by the arm, dragging him to their room and closing the door. In yet another gross display of a lack of any sense of boundries, he dug into Artemis' closet and produced the outfit which he'd always liked least – a green shirt with a cartoon animal of some sort prominently displayed on it and a pair of blue jeans. He only owned the clothes as a contingency plan, in case he ever had to do any criminal work that required him to blend in with typical European teenagers. Thus far, he'd never lowered himself to entertaining any schemes that petty.

"That's it, Fowl – you're going to the rock," Covey demanded.

Artemis once again found himself wishing that Butler were allowed into his dorm. "And why am I doing that, Covey?" the prodigy asked. "Have I suddenly developed an interest in adolescent social activity? How unlike me."

"No," Covey declared, "You've developed an interest in not having me sing 'Valderi' all night." 

Artemis stared at his roommate, aghast. "You wouldn't," he insisted, trying to recall every article ever written by the Geneva Convention about the rules of civilized warfare. Surely 'nation-states' could include autonomous preteens, could they not? Any technicality would be better than having to decide which was worse – an evening spent with schoolmates or a round of late night off-key singing. 

"I love to go a-wandering…" Covey started, in that awful sing-song voice of his, and Artemis could stand the choice no longer.

"Very well!" the criminal mastermind replied. "I concede, I'll go, I'll go." As he got dressed, his tossed more than one dirty look Covey's way. There had to be a way past the boy's deadly singing-weapon. Simple earplugs were insufficient, as Covey was not above simply wrestling him until he got them off. Such times made him appreciate Butler as a resource. 

After both boys were dressed, Covey led his roommate/captive out into the quad, and beyond that, into the world of juvenile social interaction. A place that, to Artemis, closed lined in with his visions of Hell.


	2. Scams and Realizations

"The Rock," as it turned out, was not just an actual rock, but the name of a pub that allowed minors to frequent it, although, of course, it didn't serve alcohol to anyone under Ireland's legal drinking age of eighteen (at least not on inspection nights). There was loud music, a pool table, three dart boards and, the _pièce de résistance, _the large, four foot stone in the center of the establishment that had been part of the inspiration to name the place. The owner claimed that it was the missing half of the famous Stone of Scone, the other half of which, of course, was the famous Blarney stone. 

The legend was that the Stone of Scone was once used to crown Scottish kings, because it was believed to have the power to give anyone who kissed it the ability to speak persuasively. People who were either too drunk to be rational, too cheap to travel all the way to Blarney castle or simply too superstitious for their own good were gathering around the rock and kissing it, particularly before trying to pair off with members of the opposite sex. 

"Ain't this place brilliant?" Covey insisted, sitting at one of the corner tables with Artemis and two of their schoolmates, an American boy in Artemis' year named Aaron Crawford and another native named Miles Brennan. He was swishing around a pint glass filled with root beer and pretending to himself that it was actual beer. Artemis, by contrast, was twirling his finger on initials that someone had carved into the tabletop and pretending that each grain of wood he smashed under thumb was a crisp hundred euros slipping into his bank account. 

"It's alright," Aaron admitted, taking a swig of his own carbonated drink. "Be nicer if there were girls our age about."

Miles straightened his school uniform tie. "Nothin' wrong with the older ones," he jested, ribbing Covey in the side. 

Artemis raised one eye to peer at Covey and noted that the boy seemed discomforted by his friend's jab. It was a comforting thought for a moment that Covey should be having just as horrible a time as he was, but then he rationalized that Covey must have asked him along because he anticipated that he wouldn't enjoy being alone with Miles and Aaron. Perhaps if he fostered a friendship amongst them, he wouldn't have to come along the next time?

He pointed over to the pool table, whose players were gathering up their things to leave. "Perhaps we should engage in some competitive activity?" he suggested. 

Covey sighed, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he insisted, glaring at Artemis. "Repeat after me." He cleared his throat. "Hey."

"Hey," Artemis repeated, trying to keep the annoyance from his face. 

"Let's," Covey continued.

"Let's," Artemis parroted.

"Play," Covey finished. Aaron and Miles started to giggle at the interaction. 

"Play." Artemis shrugged. "You understood what I was trying to conv…"

"Ah ah ah," Covey interrupted, wagging his finger. "Say the whole phrase now."

"Hey, let's play," Artemis complied, his voice flat and monotonous.

"Put some feeling into it, Arty!" Covey practically yelled. By this point, the other boys were in hysterics, especially at hearing the boy's nickname.

"Don't call me that," Artemis snapped, a dangerous edge in his voice now. He got up and headed towards the table without another word. 

"Awww, you hurt his feelings," Aaron mocked, ribbing Covey some more. "Want us to give you some alone time so you can make up?"

"Shut up," Covey complained, getting out of his seat and following Artemis. The four of them then proceeded to play eight-ball, Covey teamed with Artemis and Miles with Aaron. Naturally, Artemis was very good at the game. Once he compensated for the damage done to the felt table, it was basic mathematics to rationalize where and how to hit the cue ball so that it would have the desired effect. After two games, the others were ready to call it quits, and the four youths finally walked back to their dormitory.

"Listen," Covey said as they changed for bed, "I'm… I'm sorry I called you Arty."

Artemis shrugged. "It's alright," Artemis declared. "It was just discomforting in front of the others." Instantly, he was surprised at himself for saying that. He didn't even like it when Juliet or Mother called him Arty, and here he was, practically giving Covey permission to do so in private?

Either Covey didn't notice said permission, or he still felt self-conscious enough to continue. "I'm just not used to being so… formal, with roomies, y'know? My roomie last year was pretty laid back, party type." He smirked. "'Course, that's probably why he flunked out."

"I don't usually spend much time around my… peers," Artemis confessed. 

Covey snickered. "It shows, man. Believe me, it shows." The boy crawled into bed and wrapped himself up in the blanket. "G'night, man."

"Goodnight, Covey," Artemis said solemnly. 

A few hours later, while Covey's light snoring playfully cut into the silence of their room, Artemis stayed awake, leaning over the books that would represent the next six months of his life's work. He had already gone to the Sotheby's website and obtained an auction estimate request form. Photographs of the beaten and leatherbound materials had fooled the selection committee, as did Artemis' perfect forgery of Leonardo da Vinci's handwriting. In plain terms, he had successfully convinced the auctioning committee that he had the authentic lost diaries of one of the greatest inventors and painters in all of Europe. 

He selected an internet auction as the forum for unloading these fraudulent manuscripts, and insisted that the only acceptable currency for bidding would be weighted gold. All that remained was the inspection of the buyer and he was going to gain back almost all of the gold he'd lost when he purchased his mother's health from Captain Holly Short and the LEPRecon squad. 

The problem was, now he had to write the damned thing. 

There was only so much his mind could embellish. What would really interest and, more importantly, convince the buyer of the work's authenticity? There needed to be multiple facets… a story of his work and, at the same time, of his personal life. Of course, it was well known that Leonardo da Vinci was a practicing homosexual, indeed that he tended to like rather young teenage boys, and yet, at the same time, painted some of the most beautiful murals of women in states of undress to ever be created on canvas. Artemis finally decided that his creative writing endeavour would talk about the creation of the Mona Lisa, and at the same time, talk of a boyfriend who drifted in and out of the painter's life as he went through the creative process.

To do this, of course, he used an actual quill and ink. He had gone to far too much trouble to get dated paper, to study the master's paintings, and to learn how to imitate his handwriting. He wasn't going to get sloppy in the end by using ball-point. Dipping the quill in the bottle, he began to write.

_14 May 1487_

_How do I describe his beauty? I was sitting in my workshop, working on my canvas, when I saw him walk by the dull pane of my window and on towards the gazebo in the villa. I had to put down my brush to admire. Even through the dirty glass, the brightness of his form shone through at me. Hair, like strands of hay in the barn, the color of dull gold. Eyes like grass after a rain. Orange drops glittering all over creamy beige skin, like grains of cinnamon on the surface of an egg white. He entrances me, tempts me to denounce the woman in my frames and turn to the glory of his own beauty. _

_He struts around the others, so self-confident, so alike them, and yet so far apart. I see him dressed, and I see him undressed, and I know that he holds secrets that I have longed for an eternity to know. I long to imitate him, but ponder my worthiness to do so. So unsophisticated is he. So beneath me, and yet so far above that I can never hope to touch him. Shorter than I, and yet so tall that I must blink when I look, for fear of being blinded by the sun._

With a chance glance to his right, Artemis noticed that Covey's blanket had halfway come off of him, so he rose from his chair and moved to the younger boy's bedside. Picking up the fold of the blanket, he pulled it back over his roommate's sleeping form, tucking it in under the boy's neck. As he did so, Covey's face turned and a lock of his light brown hair dipped just over his brow. Reflexively, Artemis reached out and stroked the hair away from the spot, eyes focused on Covey's face. He stared at the boy for almost a full minute before he realized what he was doing, shaking it off and moving back to the manuscript. 

He sat down to begin again but blinked, shocked, and put the quill back down. He reread the passage he had just written, and then looked to his right again.

Covey. While pretending to describe Leonardo's imaginary gay lover, he had just described, with perfect accuracy, Covey Hanlon. 


	3. Midnight Activities

Author's Note: Well hello there, everyone. I'm tremendously sorry for the long wait. To be honest, it probably won't be the last one, because I've always believed that a rushed project is a bad project, and I'd rather do it **_right_** than do it fast. I needed to answer some long term questions about my story before I could write any further, and now that I know those answers, I should be able to proceed through the next three or four chapters, at least, without more than a week between them for people to absorb the new stuff. I do very, VERY much appreciate all the good feedback I've gotten so far, I've been reading it (and feeling a little guilty) as it comes in and it is what keeps me going when a project gets hard, like this one inevitably does because of all the research involved in writing someone as intelligent as Arty. :) So, sit back, hope you enjoy.

            Darell Mason was, purportedly, the smartest student in Saint Bartleby's. At least that's what the grade average reflected, and that was quite good enough for Darell's parents back in London, who were already bragging about his academic success.

            Darell _was_ a smart boy, but it was the ability to get his hands on the tests in advance that was the determining factor. He had a passion for climbing that could only be described as inborn – in fact, he was probably more comfortable moving vertically up a wall or a tree than he was walking on the ground – and that trait came in particularly handy when dealing with Bartleby's Tower of Excellence, the five-story conclave which housed the faculty dormitory and private studies. It was quite a way off from the student houses, so as to avoid the appearance of impropriety between teachers and students, even though such stalwart guard of said appearance has historically always been a sure sign that impropriety was, in fact, occurring anyway. 

To get to the tower, one had to sneak out of the student houses and cut across an eighteen hole golf course and a football field (the Americans, of course, referred to it as a soccer field). Then, at the tower's base, Darell would take the last hole's flagpole and use it to pole vault five feet to the first floor windowsill, from there knowing adequate foot and hand holds to ascend all the way to the fifth floor windows of the appropriate teachers and obtain the answers. Ironically, the daredevil british youth did this more for the fun of it than for the actual test answers, as he could easily score in the nineties without the answers and had, on several occasions, done so when the teachers demanded a retest to prove that he hadn't cheated. Presently he was considering dropping the practice altogether or passing the answers on to some other student. All this valedictorian stuff had been fun for him at first, but he'd discovered over his first couple of weekends out with his parents that it was a real cramp on his lifestyle. Anytime he wanted to play, it was, "Not now, Darell, you've got to learn up proper and keep that first place spot, haven't you?" Perhaps the only thing to a young boy more boring than studying for school is _pretending_ to study for school. 

While Artemis Fowl was brushing back Covey's hair and marveling at the similarities between the boy and the fictitious lover in his manuscript, Covey was slipping along the grounds again for another good climb up the Tower. There was no test coming up, and it was raining hard, but the higher altitudes inexplicably beckoned to him, even moreso than normal, and he simply couldn't resist the jaunt. As he crossed the golf course, he once again took a long look at the sixteenth and seventeenth holes, searching for signs of habitation. One of the popular stories going around the school lately was that there was a giant living on the golf course, and that on rainy nights, like this one, a student could look out their dorm window and see his outline against the flashes of lightning along the Irish countryside. Whether it was a folk tale spread by the teachers to keep unruly students from doing just what he was attempting, or whether it was a genuine monster, Darell could never help but feel like he was being watched when he passed the spot. It was enough to make him hurry his pace whenever he passed it. 

As he clung to the side of the tower wall, weathering himself against the raindrops on the building, Darell found himself thinking about a girl he'd seen on the last weekend outing. His youthful hormones were just coming into high gear and, of course, being British, he'd had no conversations whatsoever with anyone on the subject. Ignorant of all things sexual, he found himself wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with him, that he had all these irrational ideas about how fun it would be if she were here, climbing with him. Or even if she were watching from the grass, egging him on. Climbing had always been a private sport for him, something he didn't even tell his parents that he did. But the thought of her being there was enough to make his heart beat faster, for him to put extra emphasis into every grip, every pull, every dare against the inclement weather as his slim little body made it's way to the top. Distractedly, he shot past the fifth floor windows to settle himself up on the roof of the tower, swinging his left and then right legs over the edge as he came up flat on his stomach on the tower roof.

Then, another lightning flash came, and he saw that he was not alone.

"Your will," a voice whispered to him melodically, "is mine."

Later that night, just before dawn broke over the ancient school, Darell's unconscious, battered form was found lying at the base of the tower, blood spattered along the walls on the first and third floors. The teacher who discovered it began to scream.


End file.
